


Crack

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Vignette, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Death Eater moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crack

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Because a friend told me I had to write whipping.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He’s just sixteen, but it’s part of the process: something that has to happen. He chose this—thinks he can take it. He thinks the mark on his arm makes the difference in school, makes him king of the castle, when it only changes everything else. He doesn’t get bragging rights or a new, awe-inspiring reverence. 

He gets to be summoned here in the dead of night for people like Rodolphus and Rabastan to play with, the others all sitting in a semi-circle around the fire. Draco’s on the other side of it, pulled taut with his hands chained to the ceiling. His feet are separated with a bar, held in place too tight to swing. His creamy skin is all on display, licked by firelight, and the only thing that mars it is his own sweat, beading up and dripping down his spine.

His blond head’s hanging. As Rabastan’s own footsteps ring through the dungeon, Draco’s head tentatively lifts, scared, grey eyes darting over his shoulder. “Uncle...” he near-whispers: a sort of plea. 

Rabastan grew up with Rodolphus. He doesn’t do those. If Draco didn’t want to be tortured like this, he shouldn’t have knelt at the Dark Lord’s feet and let the snake be carved into his skin. That’s all this is. A man would take it. They need to test this new whip—a new favourite in this collection. It’s too early to capture Muggles and Mudbloods. It’ll look better on _pure_ skin, anyway. 

When Rabastan hisses, “Look away,” his voice is scratchy and raw. Azkaban dulled him. He doesn’t want to do it with Draco looking at him.

If he doesn’t do it, Rodolphus will do it worse. Draco looks away, face scrunching up. He’s trembling. Coward.

Rabastan’s entire body was the Dark Lord’s when he was Draco’s age. He took so much more than this. He lifts the handle of the whip into the air, the leathery end snaking down over his shoulder, gravity pulling it loose. He pauses, mostly for dramatic effect. For the audience. 

Then he snaps it down over his nephew’s pale skin, instantly leaving a sharp, pink trail. That static in the air is almost as loud as Draco’s weak cry of pain. His fists tighten but can’t go anywhere. Rabastan draws the whip to the other side, striking a second time, too fast and without mercy. Draco _shrieks_. Another blow, and then another, and in no time at all his entire back’s pink, the lines an angry red, cut open and beginning to spill. His skin’s so _thin_ , so _fragile_ , but Rabastan doesn’t stop, not even when Draco begins to whimper and sob. He needs to know. He’ll be doing this to others, some day. 

Rabastan stops somewhere around the thirtieth blow, and he glances over his shoulder at a sudden moan. Rodolphus has pulled his hood down, slumping back in his chair, looking far too satisfied. Sick. The whole lot of them. Rabastan, too. 

Rabastan takes a deep breath and begins to litter the back of Draco’s clothed legs, ripe ass, teetering knees. He’s going to fall over, collapse. The chains hold him up. He’s panting and gulping. Rabastan lets the tail of the whip curl around Draco’s shoulders and sides, painting everything. 

He stops at fifty blows and drops the whip, patting his wand in his pocket and whispering the counter spell. The chains snap. 

Draco tumbles to the floor instantly, his shoulder smashing into the stone and his hair splaying out. He doesn’t even try to get up. 

“Pathetic,” Bellatrix snorts, somewhere in the throng. 

Rabastan shrugs. “Someone send him back.”

Rabastan ghosts towards the door, his brother at his heels.


End file.
